To Hell With It
by Amertsi
Summary: The newly deceased finds his way into Hell. Gilbert thinks a mistake has been made. Roderich knows one hasn't. AU. Eventual PruAus. Rated M for torture/gore.
1. Chapter 1

_I suppose this is more of a prologue than a Chapter 1 since it's rather short, but oh well._

 _Chapter Warnings: mentions of death and torture, religious implications._

* * *

Despite the screams and howls of the damned, Hell was an organized, professional business. Check in at the counter, where the smiling receptionist would have you wait, read an outdated magazine to pass the time, a seat between each body to provide personal space. Or politely, you'd apologize, and sit next to strangers, for no other seats are available, and you keep your legs pressed tight together, arms across your chest to avoid brushing against your neighbors. You'd wait, until a man in doctor's scrubs would open the door and call your name, and you'd follow, the same nerves in mind that you'd have at any office such as this. A slight anxiety present in the back of your thoughts, but not so overwhelming that you might panic. You might even forget why you're here. You'd forget and think, "Oh, this isn't so bad now, is it?" And you'd be lead to a room, fitted much like your everyday doctor or dentist's office. You'd be told to have a seat, which you would, and the door would shut.

Yes, a business was what they liked to call it, those who worked there. It was much nicer sounding than eternal punishment or something else of the sorts, even if behind the spotless counters and crisp suits that's what it was; Hell. The door would shut, and the doctor would take out your file and read it aloud, and you'd remember suddenly why you're there. On the file are not medical conditions or pills taken daily, but a list of sins. He'd read them aloud, explain your position, perhaps give a sympathetic, almost apologetic smile, for he too was once like you, a damned soul, filled with dread, fear, guilt. You might try to apologise or claim there must be some mistake, but you know there have been none. You are meant to be here, that list is proof. Hell is a business, a tightly knit one, and they do not make mistakes.

You might try to run, but you are already restrained to the chair. The doctor is opening drawers, pulling out the tools of his trade, and your blood runs cold at the sight. And you wish, oh how you wish you could take it all back! Start over anew, make amends, you wouldn't live your life how you did, not knowing that this is the result.

But there are no second chances in death.

Gilbert was tired of this routine. Lead in a patient, to the office, read to them the list of sins, sigh and ignore their pleas, then get on with it. Hell was Hell, and no amount of clean cut doctors and smiling receptionists and old timey magazines could hide it once you were locked in. In the beginning, he'd relished in the thrill of it all. How silly the patients were, thinking they could just beg and they'd be let go! No, once you'd made an appointment with Hell, you stuck through with it. No turning back, no delays. It was almost comical, the fear in their eyes as he'd prepare his tools, as if they didn't expect damnation to involve pain. He'd thrived on their shrieks and screams and the warm blood that would stain his once pristine coat. He had to. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have been chosen for this job. Mercy was not an option for the doctors. They were to do their job without thought, and if they enjoyed it, well, that was just a bonus, wasn't it? But after so many years, after so many patients, the process grew boring and mundane. Gilbert used to be baffled by the older doctors who complained about the monotony of their work, but now he cursed it as well. It was so predictable, each patient the same as the last. He hadn't even bothered to look at this one yet or read his file beforehand. What was the point, afterall? He'd forget this patient's face, just like the rest, ignore his screams and begging as he worked, then go home for the day, just to come back and start the process anew.

But he couldn't go the entire time without greeting the patient who so obediently followed him into his room, one of thousands, and sat in the chair he wouldn't leave for days, years, centuries, perhaps. So, a look of absolute boredom on his face, Gilbert observed his newest patient.

He was a young man, too young to have died of old age. An accident perhaps, then, or sickness. Fair skinned, glasses that framed violet eyes, and an expression that was almost a pout, as if he were inconvenienced by being here. Gilbert had to shake himself from those eyes, for they were beautiful, just like the rest of his delicate features. He wondered, laughing to himself as he tried to imagine what such a gorgeous man could have done to land himself here. He wasn't bulky, in fact, he seemed to lack extra muscle entirely, so he could be no killer. Perhaps, then, he'd done something more sinister, more manipulative, something befitting such sharp eyes. He seemed like a smart man, but then again, no man smart enough would land themselves in hell. Perhaps it was just the glasses.

Gilbert reached for the clipboard holding the files of this man, a rare curiosity in his mind. He skimmed the outline, speaking as he did so.

"So. Welcome. I'm Doctor Beilschmidt, but just call me Gilbert, we're gonna be spending a lot of time together, so might as well." He paused, searching for a name. "Edelstein, huh? Nice name. Roderich's nice too, but Edelstein's one hell of a surname." Gilbert chuckled. "Can I call you Rod? Roddy?" He looked up to glance at the man, but he was silent, calm almost, not even seeming to mind the restraints on his wrists and ankles keeping him bound to his chair. Gilbert shrugged. "Okay then. Rod it is."

"Anyway, Rod, I'm just gonna go over the basics for you. You're in Hell, obviously, and I'll be the doctor treating you during your eternal damnation, or however much time you got here. Doesn't really matter how long. Of course, you probably wanna know what landed you here, so lemme just go over your file and we'll find out, 'kay?"

As he fished out the list of sins, Gilbert paused. His eyes narrowed, face falling into a confused frown. As the silence persisted, the man, Roderich, spoke, his voice soft, like a songbird trapped amongst ravens.

"...Is something the matter, Doctor?"

And Gilbert, a look of utter befuddlement on his face, thought that maybe, just maybe, for the first time since creation, that Hell had made a mistake.

Roderich's file was empty.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter warnings: descriptions of gore and torture, mentions of eye gore but it isn't explicitly detailed. Thank you for reading._

* * *

Gilbert shook his head, incredulous. No, no, this was impossible. Hell didn't make mistakes. Not now, not ever. He rubbed his eyes, squinting, as if somehow that would make the words appear on the page, and he would laugh and turn to his patient, apologize for the wait, then read out that list of sins that had to exist.

But there was nothing.

Like a flipped switch, Gilbert's features twisted, brow furrowing, and he grabbed his patient by the collar, lifting him out of his chair, but only so far as the restraints would allow. "If this is supposed to be some kinda joke, Mister Edelstein, it's really not funny. Where's your file?" His voice came out a snarl, and the man in his grip only looked at him with a frown, that same calm serenity in his eyes. Gilbert longed to snuff it out.

"The file is there, Doctor. Is there a problem?"

"Yeah, there's a huge fucking problem! Why the fuck are you here?!"

His patient remained unperturbed. Gilbert found it infuriating. "I really don't think it matters why I am here. That's not your job, now, is it? To know why I'm here. Your job, Doctor, is simply to deal out whatever punishments I have earned. So, if you don't mind, I'd be grateful it if we could get on with it. This waiting has me anxious."

Gilbert stared into unwavering eyes, then, scoffing, released his grip on him, his patient wincing as he was dropped back into the chair. "Fine. Whatever. Don't tell me. It's not like it matters. Just don't-" He sighed. "I don't wanna hear any complaints from you, y'here?" He began rummaging through drawers, making a ruckus as he searched for his tools. "If you're not supposed to be here, now's your chance to say it." He turned, a small scalpel in hand, meeting the gaze of his patient once more, meeting the same eyes, not a trace of regret to be found in them. "I'm serious. I don't wanna find out there was a mistake and I've spent lord knows how long fucking up a guy who's innocent." Roderich only looked back at him, and Gilbert wondered how long he'd last, what with those delicate features and dainty figure.

"I assure you, Doctor, there have been no mistakes."

Gilbert's expression lingered on one of confusion and utter bafflement for a moment longer, before he shook out those feelings. There was no room for pity in a place like this. And Roderich was so different from the norm, so interesting despite it all, that maybe he could have fun with a patient for the first time in years. Slowly, a wry smirk crept to his features, and he approached the chair, flipping the scalpel between his fingers.

"All right then, whatever you say." The metal of the scalpel blinking in the fluorescent lights of the office reflected in Roderich's eyes, and Gilbert's smirk grew as he saw the first signs of fear in that insufferable gaze. "Better hold on to your stockings then, Pretty Boy, 'cause this is gonna hurt."

* * *

 _I need a new couch._

It was an old couch, gifted to him by his brother when he'd moved into his new place. Gilbert loved the damn thing. It was just perfectly soft, just perfectly colored. But the cushions were beginning to fade, and, with his face pressed into them, he could smell the remnants of some stain. Groaning, Gilbert rolled onto his side, narrowing his eyes into a glare. If his brother were here, he'd be getting an earful about getting blood on the couch, his doctor's coat still hanging off his shoulders. But he wasn't, and Gilbert was too lazy to move. On any other day, he would have been just as neat and tidy as his younger brother and thrown his coat into the laundry straight away; his brother had to get it from someone, after all. But today, he simply lay there, glaring at a spot on the wall across the room.

Never before had a new patient left him so goddamn tired.

He'd wanted to start with the eyes. Those hateful violet eyes that Gilbert both loved and found himself watching, looking for those emotions that betrayed an otherwise neutral face. But, as he always said, save the best for last. So he let the pretty boy keep his eyes and started on his hands instead.

What Gilbert had thought to be soft, unblemished hands were riddled with callouses at the fingertips, and he inspected each with a critical gaze. Roderich certainly didn't seem the type to do hard work, and yet, despite the marks and scars, they were still elegant hands. Long fingers, pristine and perfect, if not for the callouses that marred them. Gilbert longed to destroy that perfection.

So he did, and screams filled his office. He crushed the beautiful elegance away, finger by finger, filled with a rush he hadn't experienced since the beginning of his career. And perhaps it was a bit out of form, to start with the hands like this, but Gilbert found he didn't care. How could he, when such an unorthodox start gifted him with such an entertaining sight? Such a soft face becoming hard and contorted, surely slate white teeth gritted tightly as if doing so might somehow help Roderich endure the pain just a little better than if his jaw were slack. Tears dotted those too expressive eyes, and his patient even cried beautifully! Gilbert wondered; was there anything this man could do that would not be beautiful? Such as shame, he had thought, that such an elegant creature such as Roderich could end up in a place such as this. Hell, with all its dark edges, its gritty corners and shadowy rooms. And wasn't Gilbert lucky that he had fallen here, despite a blank file? If he hadn't, if he'd claimed a mistake had been made, then Gilbert wouldn't have been allowed to experience such beauty, such refined pain and suffering. Roderich's dignity would only make the coming days and weeks and years more sweet. Gilbert was going to chip away at it, piece by piece.

He'd checked his watch then, leaving Roderich with hands now broken and bloody, and himself with gloves stained. Several hours still till the end of his shift. He was certain that he had some quota to fill, a requirement to perform such and such experiment, but how could he, when he had such an entertaining new plaything?

And so he'd decided to fill in quotas and check off boxes later. Today would be simply for himself. Only his own experiments he'd perform, and perhaps he'd leave early, to let the new patient rest a little longer. The first day was always the hardest, after all. Though usually, Gilbert didn't bother to give them extra time; might as well just throw them hard and fast into the bloody fray. But such a delicate man would surely need more time, he reasoned. So Gilbert did leave early.

Not before allowing himself the joy of finally snuffing out those eyes, of course.

He'd left his patient still strapped to the chair, as was protocol, bid him goodnight, then left, locking the door to the office behind him. And he'd made his way home as if it had been any other day.

But it wasn't. The sudden lack of energy in him was proof enough of that. After the climb was the fall, after all, and now Gilbert lay on his couch, still staring at the wall, and wondered just how his pretty little patient was doing. If the first day was hard, then the first night was harder. He couldn't remember if he'd left the lights on or not, but supposed it didn't matter. His brow furrowed in thought, and he wondered if there really was a quota for eyes. He hadn't collected any in a while, so surely it wouldn't hurt to get some more.

And oh, how he couldn't wait to see those eyes again. That was the beautiful thing about Hell. No injuries his patients suffered were permanent. Come morning, when he'd unlock the door to this office again, he'd find Roderich brand new, as if nothing had ever happened, the only signs that Gilbert had done his job the day before being the bloodstains covering the man. He would clock in next morning, and grin at the bewildered face of his patient, who must have spent the night trembling and in fear, unable to cry for his lost eyes, his lost vision, for his hands that could no longer do whatever it was he did to get those callouses. Briefly, he felt a bit guilty for not explaining the entire process to the man.

Gilbert let out a loud, exhausted groan. Why feel guilty now? This job, this new patient, they'd granted him more fun that he'd ever experienced, at least more than he'd experienced in a long while. And it wasn't like he had a habit of explaining everything to his other patients, anyway. But he just couldn't shake the feeling. That empty file and questions unanswered flashed in his mind like a curse he couldn't dispel.

He couldn't pretend the file wasn't empty. That much was certain. But that was also so unprecedented. No one came in with an empty file. Gilbert supposed that if they did, then it really must be a mistake, for those without sin cannot go to Hell. But there he was, a man with no sins, no reason to be eternally damned, none that Gilbert could think of. Even more puzzling, Roderich had shown no regret, no signs that he wasn't meant to be there. And Gilbert couldn't help but believe him. Something had to have sent his newest patient to him, but he couldn't even begin to fathom what.

With another groan, Gilbert rolled over again, this time so he was falling off the couch, landing on his back on the floor so he might glare at the ceiling instead. He wished to see those eyes again. Those emotional, gorgeous eyes. He wished to stare into them, silently ask, why are you here? But he knew he'd receive no answer, and he'd begin to wish to tear them out again instead.

Gilbert sighed and finally sat up, running his hands through unkempt hair.

"...I really do need a new couch."


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter warnings: descriptions of injuries, mentions of death._

* * *

The office was dark.

Well of course it was dark, thought Roderich. A room could be only dark when one had no eyes with which to perceive light. And he supposed that right now, it might be best that he couldn't see himself, couldn't see how mangled he must look, how broken. He could feel it just fine, though, and that was enough for now. After all, it was that sensation, the feeling of pain, that was keeping him up, keeping him alone in this dark, silent room. The pain was bothersome, certainly. What he wouldn't give for a nice rest after such a long day.

And it had been such a long day. Dying really did steal the energy from you, quite literally, and even after death, that tiredness persisted in Roderich's body like a ball and chain he was forced to drag about. At least his death had been rather peaceful, he'd been given the opportunity of choice, after all. And what more peaceful a way to go than from a heart attack in your sleep? A heart attack that surely now was leaving doctors puzzled, for Roderich had been a young, healthy man. Sure, a bit out of shape and with an affinity for sweets, but healthy nonetheless. No family history of heart failure to blame, no previous illnesses. In the end, the blame would likely fall on stress. Roderich couldn't help but laugh at the thought. Colleagues had always joked that he would give himself a heart attack and die, and look at him now! Dead and in Hell, exactly because of that. He supposed he could have chosen to go out more extravagantly, such as in a freak accident or at the hands of some killer. It would have been more believable a death, but he didn't want those around him to worry more than they needed to. Worry brought about by a torn up body, not unlike how he was now. Might as well leave his physical self intact so they might dress him up for a quiet funeral.

He wondered, as he sat strapped to that cold chair with nowhere to go, if the funeral really would be quiet as he hoped. His family wasn't poor by any standards, but they kept to themselves, and Roderich had few friends. He imagined it a small occasion, formal, with solemn faces. His younger brother perhaps would be well enough by then to attend.

Roderich paused in his thoughts, a pang of guilt overcoming the physical pain in his hands and eyes, or lack thereof. He hadn't time for regrets, not now. But he did wish, oh how he wished he had been able to explain this all to little Klaus. His baby brother, only eight years of age. Roderich was loathe to imagine the pain he must endure now. But at least it was no longer the physical pain of sickness, for if the deal went through, the boy couldn't be ill any longer. And it must have, for Roderich was here in Hell, dead, and his brother was alive, hopefully healing.

The deal had to have worked, otherwise Roderich would have died in vain.

In the darkness of the office, Roderich almost wanted to cry. Everything hurt. Physically, his fingers ached, and he wondered if he would ever be able to play his piano again, or any piano, for that matter. And his eyes; such a strange sensation, for them to be gone. It was as if someone had shattered the light bulbs and left him locked in pitch black, black so thick he couldn't see even with his eyelids up.

But his own uncertainty reigned stronger than any other pain. If only he had some way to know that everything had turned out alright up in the world of the living, that somehow, this was truly the right choice to make and his brother really was healthy once more. Healthy, but burdened now by the death of a brother. Roderich blinked away tears and painful thoughts, wincing, and the darkness persisted.

And in that one single blink, the pain vanished. Roderich's eyes widened. His eyes, back so suddenly, as if nothing had happened. He almost cried out, but his voice caught in his throat as now mended fingers clenched the armrest of his prison. He glanced about, vision darting in the still dark room, new eyes unadjusted to the lack of light. Roderich tried to even his breathing, tried to calm the quick rise and fall of his chest as he attempted to rationalize what had happened.

Eyes didn't just grow back. That much was certain. But then again, innocent men aren't just sent to Hell. Perhaps this was just part of the process. Can't have the patients too injured, after all. His eyes slowly beginning to make things out in the room, Roderich tried to read the time on the clock that hung on the wall. 3 AM, on the dot. A curious time, but Roderich tucked it into the back of his mind. Maybe there was a pattern to this nonsense.

With the pain now gone, Roderich wondered if sleep might be possible. He was so very tired, after all. How funny, he thought, to be tired in death. What was meant to be an eternal sleep had Roderich more exhausted than he'd ever been alive. He closed his eyes with a sigh. There was blood on his face and covering his hands; now that the overwhelming sensation of pain had subsided, he was acutely aware of its presence, splattered across his body like morbid paint. Hopefully he'd be allowed a shower, and he could wash the blood away, watch it swirl down the drain and stain the water red.

As his breath evened, a picture of his brother came to mind. A picture of a young child, weak, but smiling, covered in bright red paint, a tiny paintbrush clenched in an equally tiny fist. He'd held up his painting to Roderich, and he'd accepted it with a chuckle, told him how talented he was, promised to hang the painting up next to the others, then rushed the boy upstairs to clean up. The bathwater ran red, and Roderich and Klaus had laughed, the picture of innocence.

 _Oh, God._ Roderich prayed. _Just let that boy live._

Amidst a flurry of thoughts and unanswered questions, worries and guilty regrets, Roderich managed to find a fitful sleep.

And in an equally cold, equally dark hospital room, his brother, still alive, woke up.

* * *

 _Note: Klaus is Kugelmugel._


End file.
